


Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose

by leiascully



Series: The FBI's Most Unwanted [57]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Autopsies, Episode Related, Gen, X-Files OctoberFicFest 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 06:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: She didn't have to do his autopsy.
Series: The FBI's Most Unwanted [57]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/249118
Kudos: 9





	Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose"

She didn’t have to do Clyde Bruckman’s autopsy. The way he died was clear - literally transparent, the plastic clinging to his mouth and nose where his body tried to overrule his brain and gasped for air. She cut it away, documenting the process. She froze each frame of the process, preserving him in words and in her memory.

As she sliced along his midline, she thought of divination. Clyde Bruckman had a gift. Mulder, at least, was convinced of it. Though she couldn't be certain, something about the cool flaccidity of his skin under her gloved hands felt fated. He was right. He was naked and she had tears in her eyes. Her fingers itched, more psychic than physical. Generations ago, deeply rooted in her family tree, one of her Irish ancestors had read entrails. She felt certain of it despite her lack of evidence. The year edged toward Samhain and some instinct rose in her. She hesitated, the blade poised over his belly. Anthropomancy, haruspicy. She wonders if he counted as a sacrifice. He did give of himself. He wasn’t like the killer’s victims, 

She turned her face away. Whatever omens were in his viscera, they weren't for her to read. She catalogued instead the weight and dimensions of his organs. He was in fairly good health for his age and his indifferent self-care. He might have lived another thirty years without the clock in his head, the bag in his hand. His doom looked over his shoulder every time he glanced in the mirror.

There had been frost on the ground when she came in to weigh his liver and his soul, to store his memory not in canopic jars, but spooled onto a miniature tape. He wanted to be donated to the body farm. He left a note about it. She thought of his dream of melting into a field of flowers. It was possible someone would honor his request, ship his body to Tennessee. It was possible he would be enterred in a pauper’s coffin in the hardening earth. The Minnesota winters were kind to the dead, after a fashion: in the spring, something of him would remain. In a warmer climate, he’d be gone by Easter.

She finished up, didn’t bother to put him all the way back together. There wouldn’t be a funeral. Besides, the grim rite of reconstruction reminded her too much of Pfaster. At least this trip had redeemed the Twin Cities for her, in some way. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Bruckman,” she said out loud, and felt silly, but correct. She stripped off her gloves and washed her hands. She realized she was humming as she leaves: “Ain’t That A Shame”. She shook her head ruefully. He would have smiled to see her.

“Finished?” Mulder said, looking a little green around the gills. “Any revelations?”

“Nothing unexpected,” she said. “Lunch?”

“From the autopsy bay to the diner,” he said. “Scully, you flummox me.” 

“I know,” she said.


End file.
